


Due Facce della Stessa Lira

by TeatimeDuchess



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Allied Forces, Angst, Armistice, Historical, Italy Brothers, Other, Swearing, World War II, gerita - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-21
Updated: 2014-09-22
Packaged: 2018-02-14 01:39:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2173158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeatimeDuchess/pseuds/TeatimeDuchess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>WWII Italy is a country divided. When the armistice is signed, declaring Italy as part of the Allied Forces, Feliciano will have to choose between his love for Germany and his own country.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. We Don't Talk About It

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to thank TheLordOfLaMancha, my wonderful beta and friend, for inspiring me to build upon what started out as a quick drabble. You kept my ideas flowing and are a writing god!
> 
> The title translates to "Two Sides of the Same Lira", Lira being the Italian currency at the time of World War II.
> 
> Translations can be found at the end of the chapter!

Italy placed the phone down in its cradle, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet as he chewed at his bottom lip. He had been called home by his boss for an emergency meeting. Worry clawed at Feliciano's chest; he knew their situation wasn't good. He could feel the fatigue and pain and stress that his country was enduring. This meeting couldn't be anything except bad news, but he forced his usual smile onto his face and left the small office. 

Germany was still sitting on the couch where he had left him, reading over pages upon pages of notes. The German was so focused on the maps and communications transcripts that he was startled when Feliciano wrapped his arms around him from behind and pressed his face into the crook of Ludwig's neck.

“I have to head back home for a meeting.” 

Italy felt Germany shift in his arms and he tightened his hold around him. “But it shouldn't take too long! I can probably be back here for dinner! I'll make pasta~” 

He pressed his lips to Ludwig's neck and felt the man adjust the way he was sitting and give a non-committal grunt. 

“Please try not to get captured. And really, pasta is not necessary for dinner when you had it for breakfast and lunch already today.” 

Germany's words were met with a small laugh and another soft peck to the cheek before Italy pulled away, leaving the flustered German to his work. 

Feliciano slipped on his boots and jacket at the front door and gave one last smile with the promise that he would be back soon before he walked out the door. He genuinely believed it too.

oOo

Arriving in Sicily hadn't taken much time. It was strange being on his island; He had made a point of staying away from his country almost completely, or keeping to the North when he did come home. Nervousness curled in his stomach. He could feel Romano close by, anger radiating off of him like waves of heat. Italy wanted nothing more than to run back into Germany's waiting arms. But a spark of guilt wormed it's way through the anxiety. He missed Romano, but they had chosen two very different paths in this war and as much as he felt betrayed by his brother, he knew that he had also betrayed him. As he walked through the silent streets, he watched every face that passed with unease.

Finally, the small government building loomed above him and he let himself in through the front doors as per usual and walked down the halls slowly, procrastinating, not wanting to face all the negativity he knew was about to come his way. Something felt off about the too quiet halls, but with the recent air raids and bombings and with how empty the streets had been on his way here, he brushed it off as the general fear and anger he felt from his people.

Italy paused outside of the small conference room to compose himself, taking deep breaths and trying to quell the restlessness that he felt. 

But as he opened one of the double doors leading into the conference room, and it was plain to see that all his unease had been quite founded. It was not his boss that sat at the head of the table; his place had been taken by Romano, the other seats in the room occupied by the Allied forces. Giving a quick glance at all the familiar but unannounced visitors that sat at his brother's side, Feliciano's eyes finally came to rest on the glaring gaze of Lovino. A million thoughts ran through his mind in that single moment before he shrunk back and dashed out of the room.

The further down the hall he got, the faster the tears ran down his face. As he ran, he clutched both the iron cross and small gold cross that hung around his neck.

Italy had seen the piece of paper on the table, the still drying ink. He knew what it had said, and he could already feel the effects of what had been done without his consent. It was an armistice. 

He needed to get back to Germany. 

Discomfort crept through his stomach, spiralling anxiety making him stagger forward as that sick feeling crawled up his throat. Feliciano needed to tell Ludwig himself of what had happened. Would he be angry? Would Ludwig hate him? Would he hurt him? 

Italy stumbled over his own fears as the front door came into sight. What if Germany didn't want him back?

A gunshot rang out, shouting from down the hall answering it, and Italy could feel heat blossom from somewhere below his kneecap. He tumbled forward, his mind trying to process the pain that was accompanying that all encompassing heat. Panic consumed his mind and he crawled towards the heavy wooden doors, so close, but now seemingly unobtainable. There was a hand on his throat before he could get very far though, lifting him back up off the ground; that same hand anchored him to the wall by his neck. He was able to look into his brother's eyes for all of two seconds before his own hands were clasped around Romano's to try and pull him off. His brother did not relent.

“Lovino. Perché?”

Feliciano managed to gasp out the two words before the choke tightened and Lovino's other hand connected with his face.

“Because you're a fucking idiot-” Another punch. “Who would give up everything-” The next connected with a sickening crack to his nose. “For that bastardo!” Blood trickled over Italy's top lip, down into his mouth. 

The smell and taste of iron made him nauseated. Still, he spoke up. “Fratello. Perché l'hai fatto. Si prega di smettere.” Between the hand at his throat and blows to his face, Feliciano's own pleading words were minimal.

“Sta'zitto!” Romano barked.

“Per quanto riguardo famiglia? Per quanto riguardo me? Per quanto riguardo il nostro paese?” There was a strike delivered for each question that Romano asked. The younger of the brothers finally fell silent, blood dripping from his lips instead of words. 

A forceful hand on Romano's shoulder jerked him away from his younger brother. “Arrête ça! Ça c'est suffi!” The hand turned into two, shaking Lovino hard “Stop it! That's enough!” Romano let Italy drop to the floor as Arthur pulled him back completely, and Francis was by Feliciano's side in seconds, scooping up the unconscious man in his arms. The Allied countries had gathered in the hallway to observe the internal conflict of the two halves of Italy; France and England had finally found it fit to interfere. And for good reason. It was only as Lovino was held back by England did he notice his brother was slumped against the wall, unconscious. France mumbled under his breath about wanting to have stepped in sooner and stupid Englishmen as he stood up with the younger Italian cradled against his chest. Francis walked off without another word, a scowl on his face. 

For a moment everything was silent but for the retreating footsteps down the hall. Canada slowly stepped forward from the small group of onlookers. He began to follow the trail of speckled blood on the floor, but not before pausing before the still restrained Lovino, seriousness hardening his features. He stayed back from the Italian, distancing himself from the violence that had just occured. “You didn't have to shoot him.” His words were harsh and cold, not quiet, but not loud; they were for Romano alone. Lovino could only watch, shocked, with guilt growing in the pit of his stomach as Matthew walked down the hall at a brisk pace to try and catch up to Francis.

The others simply watched him go.

Once Canada was out of sight, Romano pushed England away, glaring at the four remaining Allies; there was a mixture of pity and assurance in their eyes. Romano needed neither. He pushed through them and walked in the opposite direction that his brother had been carried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song that inspired this fic (and continues to inspire it), is Stolen Dance by Milky Chance.
> 
> Translations
> 
> -Lovino. Perché?  
>  "Lovino. Why?"  
>  -Fratello. Perché l'hai fatto. Si prega di smettere.  
>  "Brother. Why did you do that. Please stop."  
>  -Sta'zitto!  
>  "Shut up!"  
>  -Per quanto riguardo famiglia? Per quanto riguardo me? Per quanto riguardo il nostro paese?  
>  "What about family? What about me? What about our country?"  
>  -Arrête ça! Ça c'est suffi!  
>  “Stop it! That's enough!”


	2. What's the Matter with You Lately

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to, once again, thank my beta and friend TheLordOfLaMancha. You are fabulous! You got me through SO much of this chapter (by which I mean the entire thing).
> 
> You should all go read her side story to this fic, "Children of God." over at http://archiveofourown.org/works/2185071
> 
>  
> 
> Some translations are in the story itself, but the rest can be found at the end of the chapter!

Morning light peeked in through the window, scattering off the small mirror in streaks of soft sunshine. Italy shifted, his body aching with different pains as he awakened. All he wanted was to roll over and wrap his arms around Ludwig and hope that the comfort of having his lover next to him would numb some of the agony. In a sleepy daze he mumbled the name of his lover, and his arm came to rest on nothing but wrinkled sheets and a thin duvet. Not the thick one that he and Ludwig had been using to keep out the autumn chill at night. 

That was his first warning. 

His second was that he couldn't move his other hand. Opening his eyes to first confirm that he wasn't at Ludwig's place, he saw the glint of metal encircling his wrist, handcuffed to the headboard of the bed. Given the fact that he had been allowed to sleep in, unawakened by Germany dragging him out of bed for morning stretches, Italy should have known that he wasn't where he wanted to be. 

In a moment of blind panic, he called out for Ludwig. Memories of the armistice and his brother's fury surfaced and Italy curled in on himself, trying to seek solace in his solitude. The door opened and he pulled the blankets up further over his head.

“Italy?” Francis' voice was soft as he entered the small bedroom. With no response, France walked to the bed after setting down a small wooden tray with food on the vanity in the corner. The smell of pasta wafted through as Francis placed a hand on the auburn hair that peeked out from under the covers.

“I brought you some food. You have to eat something mon petit...” France's words were filled with affection and worry, that of a parent who's child was sick.

There was still no response.

Gently, the blond nation reached over and undid the handcuffs, watching as Italy quickly pulled his now free hand under the covers as well. “S'il vous plait, mon petit...” France tugged down the pale green duvet and the bed sunk where he sat down with his side pressed to Feliciano's. He gazed down at the small form, trembling and wrapped in his own arms. “Feli, please. I know you're upset. It was the only way to save you. You know the war is not going well for Germany.” Long fingers stroked through Italy's hair, pleading for the man to understand, but the caressing touches stopped abruptly as Italy moved away from France. With a sigh, the older nation stood up. 

“Please, eat.”

With one last pained look towards the younger nation, Francis left the room. The pasta remained on the vanity, untouched.

oOo

Feliciano had lost count of how many days he had been here.

What he did know was that he was on the outskirts of Naples in the lovely little cottage that him and his brother owned by the sea.

It had always been so inspiring to come here, to get away from all the anxiety of work, with nature as his muse. The sound of the waves lapping up against the rocky outcrop had always sung him to sleep. He would paint and sing and cook, and Lovino and him would go for walks along the grassy cliffs or down on the soft sand of the beach.

But right now it was his prison and it did not bring him any of the joys it had previously.

Each day he sat in his room, bundled under the covers that were meant to keep out the ocean breeze, his hands laying idle in his lap instead of painting flowing landscapes or making the Italian food he so adored. His worry for Germany kept his mind occupied, his creativity stumped, and his fluttering words chained in his throat. Sometimes he went outside, but his trips out of his small bedroom were few and far between; he watched the skies for any sign of German planes, but with each passing glance at the open skies his heart fell further. 

Germany wasn't coming here. Not to save him.

No matter where Italy was, there was always someone by his side, whether it was a guard that he didn't bother to learn the name of, or Francis or Matthew as they passed through on their way elsewhere. He was never alone. France would bring him food, trying to hide the fatigue in his eyes and the bruises and wounds that peppered his pale skin; he would plaster bright smiles onto his face as he trudged into the room. Canada would sit by his side and fidget, always looking out of the window and to the skies whenever he thought Italy wasn't paying attention, his mind far away and distracted by war plans.

Neither of them would tell Feliciano about what was going on in the war.

Every so often, Italy could hear Romano enter the small cottage. There would be an influx of yelling, swearing and the violently fragile sound of objects being broken before the front door slammed shut once more. 

The house would then remain quiet until the next time Lovino came back.

oOo

Rarely did Lovino watch over Feliciano.

The older Italian brother had only stayed with him a couple of times. Their encounters had been brief, silent moments. Neither of the brothers ever exchanged words or even dared to look at one another during the few minutes that Romano could bear to spend in his brother's presence. To say that these moments for Romano were awkward and stressful couldn't hope to describe the extent of how he felt; there was so much Lovino wanted to say but he could never bring himself to break the chilly emptiness that sat heavy between them. 

A week had passed since Lovino had brought his brother here. He could see his brother sitting on the soft, long grass close to the cliff that overhung the rough waters of the Tirreno. The sun shone brightly despite the autumn chill, reflecting off of the auburn hair of his sibling.

As he walked closer, Lovino could see Feliciano staring out towards the sea, his hair wind blown and tousled. He was ignoring the man that was guarding him, which wasn't new, but even from a distance he could tell that his brother was focused on and clutching something close to his chest, to his heart.

Romano felt a small spark of hope in his own chest as he remembered the small gold cross that Feliciano kept around his neck, one of a matching pair that the brothers had. 

His brother was asking for forgiveness, trying to find his way back to home.

A small smile pulled at Romano's lips as he got closer and he motioned for the guard to leave with a rough “Lasciaci.”. He turned his attention to his brother as the nameless man saluted and marched away with his gun slung over his shoulder.

With that small amount of hope swelling up in his chest, Lovino found the strength to speak to his brother, his words based on assumption.

“Sarebbe meglio se abbiamo pregato insieme.”

_It might be better if we prayed together._

Feliciano looked up with wide, questioning eyes. Disbelief and confusion were prominent as he looked up at his older brother. It wasn't until Lovino came to stand at his brother's side that he saw the golden cross dangling below Italy's hand; there was something else clutched reverently between his stress whitened fingers.

“Che cosa avete in mano?”

_What do you have in your hand?_

Lovino held out his hand, beckoning for his brother to show him. Feliciano pulled back, his grip tightening.

Something in Romano snapped and he tackled his brother to the ground, pinning him there on the cool grass. Italy cried out, thrashing to get away as Romano pried his fingers from around the keepsake.

As if he had been burned, Lovino pulled away, straddling his brother and staring dumbfounded at the Iron Cross that hung from his brother's neck. There was silence between them as both brother's tried to catch their breath, Feliciano watching his brother closely, calculating what he might do next.

Anger flared in Romano's chest. How dare his brother continue going on like this, as if Germany was everything and that their country didn't matter. His eyes remained glued upon the iron cross that still hung around Feliciano's neck, right next to the gold cross that matched his own. As if both Germany and his own country meant the same to him, as if they were on the same level of importance. Romano grabbed the iron cross, pulling hard enough to snap the chain before Italy could even react properly. A small, strangled noise escaped Feli's throat as he made to grab it back. Lovino swatted his hand away and stood abruptly.

Both brothers were on their feet within moments of each other.

“Dare indietro!”

_Give it back!_

Feliciano held out his hand, eyes angry and pleading all at once. Romano simply tucked the necklace into his pocket and walked away.

Lovino motioned for the guard standing nearby to go to his brother's side as he continued up the rocky path to their cottage. He slammed the door shut behind him and pulled the Iron Cross out of his pocket. Romano glared at the cross in his hand with disgust and hatred, as if the piece of metal had personally offended him. 

Metal and wood made contact as he tossed the necklace down on the kitchen table, and he slammed his hands down on either side of it. The sound was sharp and grating, the table rocking as the cross jingled on the surface tauntingly, and the unusual hard silence of their cottage was momentarily broken. When it returned, the silence was thicker than before. He never took his eyes off of the Iron Cross. Romano stared at it for a while, reluctant to pick it back up, to touch it in case it bewitched him as it had his brother... 

But maybe if he held it he would understand what his brother was feeling. Lovino wanted to know what was running through that silly auburn head of Feliciano. He picked up the Iron Cross once more, spinning it around and turning it over in his hands. Fingers paused in their observation as they touched upon embossing in the metal's surface. There was an inscription on the back.

_Ich werde immer nach Hause gekommen._

After a brief translation and a moment's contemplation, Romano felt his heart clench. He could picture himself and Feliciano as children, his younger brother cradled in his lap and sobbing, heartbroken over the blond boy who had left him for war. Romano felt hot tears slide down his cheeks despite himself and he threw the Iron Cross across the room with a frustrated snarl, taking no satisfaction as it clattered to the floor. He slid down to the floor and cradled his head in his hands, letting angry tears soak into his sleeves as he prayed for the war to finally be over and done with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was inspired by What's the Matter by Milo Greene.
> 
> Translations
> 
> -S'il vous plait, mon petit...  
> "Please, my little one..."  
> -Lasciaci.  
> "Leave us."  
> -Ich werde immer nach Hause gekommen.  
> "I will always come home."


End file.
